


The Dinner Party

by Burning_Nightingale



Category: The Bone Key - Sarah Monette
Genre: Case Fic, Developing Relationship, M/M, Mystery, Reunions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-08
Updated: 2019-02-08
Packaged: 2019-10-24 05:46:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17698781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Burning_Nightingale/pseuds/Burning_Nightingale
Summary: I spent the hours leading up to the dinner in a state of such distress and panic that I almost sent word to Dr Starkweather that I was so ill I could not possibly attend, no matter the consequences for my career. But I had not the courage for it; and so, as evening drew in, I found myself arriving, in the company of Dr Starkweather, at the home of Mr and Mrs Ronald Norton.What I saw when I entered the parlour was as I expected; there were about fifteen other dinner guests beside ourselves, all standing about talking with glasses in their hands.What I did not expect was that one of these dinner guests would be John Pelham Ratcliffe.





	The Dinner Party

**Author's Note:**

  * For [earnshaws](https://archiveofourown.org/users/earnshaws/gifts).



> I actually picked this canon up because it looked interesting from your letter - and I'm so glad I did! I loved this book!
> 
> I hope you enjoy!

That morning another letter had landed on my desk; it was addressed to Mr Booth, The Demon Hunter.

The postmaster, I felt certain, took a sick pleasure in delivering these hated notes; I tossed this one, as I had the others, straight into the fire.

In recent months I had garnered an unwarranted and entirely undesired reputation as an expert on the supernatural. The rumour had no doubt been spread by the vengeful Mrs. Hermione Norton, in whose company I had had a rather disastrous experience some two months before.

I was not often called upon to represent the Parrington at social functions, for reasons which are obvious to those who spend even a short time in my company. On those occasions requiring an appearance from someone in the Department of Rare Books, Mr Lucent was usually called upon to oblige.

In this instance Mr Lucent was laid up at home with a raging fever, entirely unable to rise from his bed, or so his sister had reliably informed the museum. He therefore would not be able to attend the private dinner reception of Mr Ronald Norton, which, as Dr Starkweather informed me in no uncertain terms, would be an unmitigated disaster. Mr Ronald Norton, it transpired, was an avid collector of rare books, and had apparently been convinced by his wife to donate a number of them to the Parrington.

“She despairs of his untidy library, no doubt,” Dr Starkweather had said, elbows leaning on his large mahogany desk, looking at me with narrowed eyes over his steepled fingers. “Or her maid complains of the gathering dust; that is usually the case in these matters. Either way, Norton will think us incompetent fools if we do not send someone with the requisite knowledge of rare books to attend his dinner. His reputation in these matters precedes him, or so I’m told. We require an expert.”

I had never before heard of the reputable Mr Norton, but as I did not often deal with the actual acquisition of the rare books that graced the Parrington’s shelves, this was not entirely unexpected. The thought of attending a private dinner reception, at which I was surely to be expected to dine and converse with many other guests before my literary expertise was called upon, filled me with dread; but the suggestion of other possible candidates to go in my place died on my lips as I beheld Dr Starkweather’s grim expression. I buckled under the weight of his stare, and agreed in a hoarse croak that I would be delighted to attend the dinner.

The night before I could get no sleep, and I spent the hours leading up to the dinner in a state of such distress and panic that I almost sent word to Dr Starkweather that I was so ill I could not possibly attend, no matter the consequences for my career. But I had not the courage for it; and so, as evening drew in, I found myself arriving, in the company of Dr Starkweather, at the home of Mr and Mrs Ronald Norton.

What I saw when I entered the parlour was as I expected; there were about fifteen other dinner guests beside ourselves, all standing about talking with glasses in their hands.

What I did not expect was that one of these dinner guests would be John Pelham Ratcliffe.

After our brief re-acquaintance at Brockstone I had not expected to see John Pelham Ratcliffe again. He had been unfailingly gracious toward me during my rather harrowing experience at our old school, but with our return to our normal lives I had expected a return to our normal state of affairs. This expectation had proved correct, for after he had seen me to my door following our drive back to the city, I had not seen him again in person. I had received a short letter inviting me to call upon him if the opportunity ever arose, wherein he also informed me of his imminent departure to Northern Africa on yet another archaeological dig. I answered, thanking him politely, and upon receiving no answer assumed my reply had been lost or overlooked in the colossal pile of mail I imagined Ratcliffe must have been confronted with upon his return to America.

There was where I left the matter until my unfortunate visit to the estate of Barnabas Wilcox. I knew there was no point in telling anyone what had happened there; there was no proof I could muster, and whatever now wore Barnabas Wilcox’s skin would no doubt secure my silence by any means necessary, were I to speak out. Besides which, the cold hard fact of the matter was that there was nothing to be done. Barnabas Wilcox was gone, his body now inhabited by something that was - or claimed to be - his late uncle. It was a process that could not be reversed.

Still, I could not turn my mind away from it; I could not contain the horror of it inside myself. Soon enough another long night without sleep found me at my writing desk, penning an account of the entire ghastly affair. And there it might have stayed, a confession simply to soothe my own mind, had I not been reminded of Ratcliffe earlier that day by Dr Starkweather, who had once again been remarking negatively on the state of our Persian collection. I had never known Ratcliffe and Wilcox to be friends - in fact I think it more likely that Ratcliffe had been bullied by Wilcox, as I had - but I could not shake the conviction that someone other than me ought to know what had happened, even if nothing could now be done. Ratcliffe, I hoped, would believe my account concerning Wilcox as he had believed my story about Palmer - and moreover, he would see the futility of bringing the matter to police or public attention.

I was correct on both counts, though Ratcliffe’s letter in reply was rather angrier than I had expected. _An awful and shameful thing, that he is lost, and no one even aware of it excepting you and I - and that wretched Flood, though he thinks of it as a miracle rather than a tragedy no doubt,_ Ratcliffe wrote. _Are you absolutely sure there is nothing to be done?_

In return I wrote in the most clear of terms that any more contact with the creature should be avoided, for the sake of both our safety; and there the matter rested. Ratcliffe had written to me once more while I was an invalid at the Hotel Chrysalis, wishing for my swift recovery and good health, but since then we had not conversed or crossed paths; not until I stepped into the Norton’s parlour and spotted him standing over by the far wall, talking energetically to a man whose back was turned to the door.

Dr Starkweather spotted him instantly; I could see his eyes light up with a manic and frankly rather terrifying glee. He barged his way across the room, dragging me along with him, until we stood face to face with Ratcliffe and the young man he had been speaking with. “Ratcliffe! What a fine surprise!” he boomed, and my cringe seemed match those of both Ratcliffe and his companion. Starkweather, of course, did not notice.

“Dr Starkweather,” Ratcliffe said, his tone somewhat strained, “What a surprise.” He was clearly making an effort to hide his considerable displeasure; though his eyes did widen in surprise when they slid past Starkweather and landed on me. “Oh, Booth. Good evening.”

I managed to return a simple, “Good evening,” without a stammer, but had no more time to speak before Dr Starkweather launched into a rather embellished tale about his meeting an important personage whose name I did not catch, but whom Starkweather obviously thought famous enough to impress Ratcliffe.

It was a great relief to find myself seated at the dinner table next to neither Ratcliffe or Starkweather. A man I had never met sat on my right, and to my left was our hostess, Hermione Norton.

Most of the evening was as tortuous as I had expected. While the other dinner guests saw fit to ignore me after I stammered out inarticulate replies to several of their questions, Mrs Norton seemed to regard me as an object of fascination. Though she showed no sign of it, I had the distinct feeling she was laughing at me behind her smile, making my tongue tie itself in even worse knots than usual. It was a great relief when the plates of the final course were cleared away, and Mr Norton finally invited me to come through into his library.

It was, as Dr Starkweather had suspected, very untidy. The shelves were stuffed full, and piles of books dotted the floor, some reaching the height of my knee. “It was Hermione’s suggestion that I get rid of some of them,” Mr Norton said as I stepped carefully across the floor, reading the names of those books that bore them on their spines. Many, I noted, were old enough that their spines were blank. “She says it cannot be good for them to languish thus on the floor, and suggested I might make a gift of a few of them to various institutions,” Mr Norton continued, “Though somewhat reluctant, I am forced to concede that she has the right of it. Now, Mr Booth, I thought perhaps you might-”

Of course it was at this point, the moment where I might finally engage in a conversation I found somewhat enjoyable, that a scream echoed from somewhere down the hall.

Mr Norton’s head whipped around like a hound that has scented a fox, and he burst forth out of the library with great speed, bellowing his wife’s name. Somewhat startled, it took me several moments to collect myself and follow, by which time Mr Norton had disappeared out of sight along the corridor. At a loss, I retraced my steps and re-entered the dining room.

There I saw most of the dinner guests had lingered for coffee, and many had now risen from their seats and were looking uncertainly in the direction of the door through which our meal had been brought; the way to the kitchen, I presumed.

Dr Starkweather was at my side in an instant. “Booth,” he snapped, “Where is Mr Norton?”

“He, er, he ran toward the scream the moment he heard it,” I said, “I did not see exactly where he went.”

“I believe it came from the kitchens,” said Miss Carmichael, who looked as if she might like to step through the door and take a look for herself.

The subject of the scream was hotly debated for several moments more. At last the door to the kitchens opened, and Mr and Mrs Norton stepped out; and silence fell around the table.

“Dear friends,” Mr Norton said, “I am afraid this night will, most regrettably, have to be cut short.”

This statement elicited a chorus of surprise, and not a few alarmed enquiries, none of which Mr Norton answered. Though he hid it well, I could see Ronald Norton was somewhat alarmed; and Hermione Norton beside him was silent and grim-faced.

For my own part I was eager to be gone. If there was to be no discussion of rare books then there was nothing left to hold my interest, and the apprehension on both Mr and Mrs Norton’s faces seemed to me to bode ill.

Of course, it was not to be. Dr Starkweather seemed determined not to lose our chance at Mr Norton’s library, and seemed not to have realized that Mr Norton was not inclined, at this particular moment, to talk about it. It would of course have been unconscionably rude to leave without him, so I was forced to wait at his side as he competed for the harried Mr Norton’s attention.

An unexpected hand landed suddenly on my shoulder. I could not contain an embarrassingly obvious startle; but when I turned I found only Ratcliffe, who did not seem to judge my reaction. “Booth,” he said, “Would you come over here a moment?”

An unexplainable clutch of fear stabbed at my stomach, but despite it I followed Ratcliffe over to a clear space by the door, where it seemed he and his friend from earlier in the evening had been speaking with Mrs Hermione Norton. The lady in question still wore a bleak expression and stared at the wall as if not really seeing it; but when Ratcliffe spoke her eyes darted to him with intense focus.

“Booth, I don’t think I had the chance to introduce my dear friend Albert Emerson,” Ratcliffe said, gesturing to his friend, who reached out to shake my hand. “Bertie, this is Kyle Murchison Booth, one of the Senior Archivists at the Parrington.”

“Charmed,” Emerson said, his voice slightly wavering. I managed to shake his hand and reply in kind without much hesitation.

Turning to our host, Ratcliffe said, “Hermione, Mr Booth has some experience in matters paranormal; he might be able to investigate your troubling apparition.”

I must admit that this offer filled me with apprehension; but I had no time to protest, as Mrs Norton fixed me with an intense gaze and said, “Then, Mr Booth, I must ask you to come through to the kitchen at once.”

Their combined expectant gazes were too much for me to refuse; I agreed to be shown through to the kitchen.

It was well-appointed and clean; about that much I ascertained before my attention was drawn by the distraught young woman in the middle of the room. An older lady was patting her shoulder and plying her with what I assumed was hot coco.

Mrs Norton turned to us, taking a moment to compose herself before saying, “We have been troubled by the apparition in the cellar for quite some time now. Mrs Abley has grown used to the nightly antics, but it surprised Bella earlier; thus the scream.” Mrs Norton’s mouth twisted in an expression of annoyance. “I have great trouble retaining staff with this nuisance haunting my cellar; if you could remove it, you would be doing me a great favour.”

There was nothing for it; I would now be expected to at least look, if nothing else - and more than that, I felt an incomprehensible urge to impress. “Well, er, Mrs Norton, I suppose we had best investigate your cellar,” I said, attempting to sound more confident than I felt.

“Straight to it, then,” Ratcliffe said; he sounded eager.

“I suppose that will be best,” Mrs Norton agreed. “Mrs Abley, if Ronald comes through, please tell him I have shown these three gentlemen down to the cellar.”

Mrs Abley – who I assumed to be the cook – looked somewhat nonplussed by this request, but acquiesced, and Mrs Norton lead us over to the cellar door. This revealed a rather steep, dimly lit staircase, down which she invited me to go first; at this point I almost faltered and refused to go further, but after a moment I swallowed my objections, aware of Ratcliffe’s eyes on me at all times.

It was his good regard I hoped to obtain, I realized; it was he whom I hoped to impress. I was not quite sure how to feel about that revelation.

The cellar was large and dark, seemingly packed to the gunnels with foodstuffs and, further in, bottles upon bottles of wine stored in ceiling-high racks. It seemed, upon first glance, perfectly normal.

“Do you sense anything, Mr Booth?” an unfamiliar voice asked at my back; it took a moment for me to identify it as Albert Emerson’s. When I turned my head, I saw he was staring apprehensively about, seeming both excited and frightened in equal measure. I had the impression than that he was even younger than I had first assumed.

“Nothing,” I said, and after a moment’s hesitation, I ventured, “I shall take a walk towards the back wall.” An entirely fabricated excuse to get away from their penetrating stares, but neither Emerson nor Mrs Norton followed me; only Ratcliffe came with me into the maze of crates and wine racks.

When we neared the back of the room, Ratcliffe said in an undertone, “Forgive me for imposing upon your time; I would not have ventured had I not thought the need dire. Ronald has been a good friend of mine for several years now, and these incidents have been playing heavily on his mind.”

“Have there been many of them?” I asked.

“Enough to scare away several maids and kitchen staff,” Ratcliffe said.

“I see.” We rounded another of the huge wine racks and found ourselves face to face with the back wall of the cellar; Ratcliffe frowned as he beheld it. “Perhaps whatever it is, it does not want to appear to us,” I said.

“But what could it be?” Ratcliffe asked.” I’m afraid my only reference is what we saw at Brockstone – and there only you were able to see events of the past in your dreams. Here, many seem able to see this…creature.”

“Our experience in Brockstone…was not universal,” I said. Ratcliffe turned to me with questioning eyes, and I began to explain, in as clear a manner as I could, the experience Mr Lucent and I had endured in the Stapleton house several years ago. “So you see,” I finished, “it may be that certain apparitions may be seen by many, while some may only reveal themselves to a select few.”

“I see,” Ratcliffe said, “Do you think, then-”

I had no opportunity to hear what Ratcliffe wanted my opinion on, as at that moment there came a rather loud scuffling noise from somewhere nearby. It could have been a rat, of course; but neither I nor Ratcliffe believed that.

“It sounds like it’s under that wine rack,” Ratcliffe whispered. He had dropped into a half-crouch, almost as if he expected something to leap out at us from behind the stacked bottles; I found myself wondering if he’d ever run into trouble on his digs in the somewhat rougher parts of the world.

We waited in silence, not daring to move, and heard more scuffling from the racks; then, with a jerky, unnatural scuttle, something squat and green-scaled shot across the floor and under another wine rack.

Ratcliffe let out a curse, but I found myself curiously relieved. Even in the second I’d had to look at it, the creature had been easily identifiable; I had looked at its picture often enough in the Demonologica. “Don’t go charging after it,” I advised Ratcliffe, who looked likely to do just that, “I know how to get rid of it.”

Ratcliffe looked at me with surprise. “You know what it is?”

“A demon, of sorts. A small one.” Now feeling more confident, I walked back over to where Hermione Norton and Albert Emerson were waiting for us at the base of the cellar stairs. “I believe I’ve identified your problem, Mrs Norton,” I said, “Could I have some salt?”

Mrs Norton blinked. “Salt?”

“Er, yes. Salt.”

“Very well.” She called up the stairs for Mrs Abley, who in short order brought down a great bag of salt, which she placed into my hands. “I’ll thank you not to waste it, Mr Booth,” she said, giving me a hard look.

I nodded, unable to summon up coherent words under her glare, and fled quickly back to the darker space between the wine racks at the rear of the cellar. Ratcliffe, predictably, followed in my wake. “Now what?” he asked.

“When the creature appears, throw this at it,” I said, opening the bag and taking out a handful of salt, then offering it to Ratcliffe, who did the same. “We’re seeking to drive it out, not kill it. If we make it known it isn’t welcome here, it will likely not come back.”

The scuffling came again from under the dusty racks, and I tensed, feeling Ratcliffe do the same beside me. I felt a flash of connection, as we waited there in that indeterminable second for the creature to emerge; Ratcliffe and I working in concert, in unity. It made something warm and ever so slightly uncomfortable flare in my chest.

The demon - a small, ugly green creature about the size of a large cat - darted out into the open again, and Ratcliffe and I both threw our handfuls of salt, he slightly quicker than I. The white crystals engulfed the creature, who howled, the inhuman noise echoing around the cellar. I vaguely heard a commotion from the stairs as I drew out another handful of salt and threw it, but I paid no mind to anything but the creature before me. The repeated barrage of salt-throwing caused the creature to stumble backward, retreating, and for a moment as I saw the plan I had envisioned in my head coming true in reality before me, I did feel somewhat competent, like an experienced, skilled hunter forcing his opponent to yield.

That was, of course, before the creature’s tortured flailing brought it into contact with the supports of the nearest wine rack, which, with its unnatural strength, the demon broke in half like a dry twig.

For a moment the wine rack teetered, rocking just on the edge of overbalancing; I stood frozen, numb with horror, while Ratcliffe thrust himself forward, far too far away to catch it but determined to attempt it anyway.

It was impossible, and I could only watch, aghast, as what must have amounted to over a hundred dollars worth of wine bottles crashed noisily downward and shattered into pieces on the cold stone slabs of the floor.

I was lucky none of the flying, shattering glass hit me; Ratcliffe, closer to the maelstrom, suffered a few injuries, but nothing serious. The bottles seemed to fall endlessly, crash after crash of exploding glass and roiling dark liquid, until the stone floor could no longer be seen under the debris. But it did, eventually, end; and Ratcliffe and I were left staring at each other, he half-drenched in alcohol and bleeding from several cuts, I unharmed but struck suddenly by the knowledge that the toppled wine rack could be the death knell heralding the end of my career at the Parrington.

The demon was nowhere to be seen; a moment passed before Emerson and Mrs Norton appeared beside us, both stopping short at the scene of devastation before them. “Good god,” Emerson muttered, while Mrs Norton just stared, slack-jawed.

“Hermione,” Ratcliffe croaked, “I am so unbelievably sorry.”

I should have added my own apology, but I found I could not force words from my throat; and Mrs Norton seemed to have eyes only for Ratcliffe. “John,” she said slowly, as if waking from a dream; then, more forcefully, “John, what _happened_?”

“I believe we drove off the creature,” Ratcliffe managed.

“At the expense of half my wine cellar,” Mrs Norton said woodenly.

“Yes.” For a moment we were all silent; then Ratcliffe said, “I really am so terribly sorry, Hermione, this was the fault of hasty action without enough planning-”

He was interrupted by a call from the cellar stairs; Mr Norton had evidently heard the sound of breaking glass, and was running to investigate. His face when he beheld the smashed rack of wine bottles was similar to that of a boy who has just seen his beloved family dog get hit by a car; Dr Starkweather, beside him, stared in open-mouthed horror as his eyes travelled across the mess, skipped past Ratcliffe, and landed on me. His face turned purple.

Little more can be said about that night at the Norton home. Mr Norton began to shout, and did not notice as Dr Starkweather caught up my sleeve in his iron grip and dragged me behind him out of the cellar and on out of the house. We stood for a moment together on the sidewalk while Dr Starkweather tried to speak, and I believed my employment at the Parrington was going to be terminated then and there; but in the end Starkweather simply managed, “Go home, Booth,” before turning and walking away in disgust.

I did go home, and spent a very unpleasant Sunday alone in my apartment, barely able to move from bed as I contemplated the possibility of having to look for another job. I had had one job interview in my life, and had been hired for my knowledge rather than my personality; I did not think I could be lucky enough for that to happen a second time.

But I did not receive any word from the museum, so at the usual time on Monday morning I made my way to the Parrington and took my usual route up to my office.

Somehow, it did not surprise me to find John Pelham Ratcliffe waiting outside my door.

“I smoothed everything over with Starkweather,” he said before I could think how to greet him.

“You- you did?” I asked.

Ratcliffe made a face. “It’ll involve a research trip, but if Starkweather is really so desperate to throw funds my way, I might as well use them.” He nodded at me. “He’s agreed to overlook the incident at the Nortons’, though I would try to avoid his office for, say, the next month or two.”

“I try to avoid him most of the time,” I said, then shook myself. “I mean, thank you. Th-thank you- I don’t know what-”

Ratcliffe held up a hand. “It’s nothing. I got you into that mess in the first place; it was my responsibility to get you out.”

I felt a sudden rush of warmth in my chest. No one had ever felt moved to argue my side, to do something so generous for my benefit; I had never had experience of this warm, affectionate gratitude before.

Perhaps, I thought, this is what it feels like to have a friend.

“It worked, you know.” When I stared at him blankly, Ratcliffe continued, “The banishment, or whatever we were doing to it. The monster hasn’t troubled the Norton’s cellar again.”

I managed to find my voice, and croaked, “It’s only been a few days.”

“Yes, I suppose.” Ratcliffe gave me a crooked smile. “Still, I like to think we succeeded.” He stepped back, gesturing at my office door. “Now, I shouldn’t keep you from your work. I’ll bid you good day, Booth; though I’m sure we’ll see each other around, as I plan for the expedition.” He made a face.

I said nothing, but as he walked away I stammered out, “I’m sorry. For everything. For so badly insulting your friends.”

Ratcliffe’s smile was a little strained, but genuine, I thought. “They aren’t best pleased, I’ll admit,” he said, “But our friendship will recover, I’m sure.”

Unsure what to say, I just blurted out, “Thank you. Again. For- with Dr Starkweather-”

Ratcliffe’s smile widened, and he just nodded before turning away and disappearing off down the corridor.

As I unlocked the door and walked into my office I found myself smiling, though I could not possibly, if asked, have explained why.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!


End file.
